


Little Bird

by CaraLee



Series: Fantasy AU [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: A Lot on the Topic of Slavery, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canonical Character Death, Cultural Information, Gen, Im sorry I don't know what I'm doing, Serial Killer, Slavery, Somehow this became a case-fic, The Travels of the Neophyte Batman, Wake-Up Calls and Clue-By-Fours
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaraLee/pseuds/CaraLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Brutus Varius detests the obligations of his rank. All these frivolities do is distract from what needs to be done. Nothing can be permitted to obstruct the Mission.<br/>Nothing and no one.<br/>Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Solstice

Brutus scowls at the clothes Alfredos had laid out for him. He turns the glare upon his steward, who is unaffected. "I realize, Master Brutus, that merriment and general enjoyment of yourself are against your wishes, but it would cause quite a scandal if you could not be bothered to make appearances at such an important festival, particularly when a masque has been commissioned for you."

His glare darkens and he feels a surge of frustration and anger. "And who was it who commissioned such a spectacle." He growls and turns his back as Alfredos bows his head.

"Your forgiveness, Master Varius, but there would have been great suspicion had you not sought such entertainment. I overstepped my bounds, but it was necessary."

Brutus snarls a little as he strips off his day shirt and pulls on the finer tunic of green velvet with black silken trim that Alfredos had chosen. "You did overstep. Greatly. Do not do so again." He brushes aside a twinge of guilt and ignores Alfredos' murmured apology. "Now I must waste many days on these revelries while the shadows advance unchecked."

"If it please my lord," Alfredos says, handing him his breeches. "Should you be seen to overindulge tonight, there will be little wonder should you remain abed into the next night."

Brutus nods shortly, considering. "I shall need to be present tonight and shall not be able to leave once the great fires are lit. If I retire at midday tomorrow I shall not be missed until well past moonrise." He makes a harsh sound deep in his throat. "Why do we even continue such a festival? Few other realms hold observances of the Solstice, and none of those that do draw them out a full se'en day. Not in all my travels have I found another people who so stubbornly cling to old superstitions."

"It is a time to celebrate life and light, Master Varius." Alfredos says softly, fastening his long, furred cloak about his shoulders with the silver pin bearing the House crest that had once belonged to his father. "Perhaps these dark lands could stand a bit more revelry of that sort. It plays its own part in beating back the darkness."

"In ages past, perhaps." Brutus says shortly, pulling on his boots. "It has been far too long since it was more than an excuse for debauchery and depravity."

A near-silent huff lets him know Alfredos' opinion of that but he ignores it. He is not blind to the way the elderly steward has hovered more and more these past months, even daring on more than one occasion to voice his concern at how deeply Brutus is devoting himself to the fight. Neither is he unaware of the gossip among the courts, of how Lord Varius is seen less and less outside the walls of his keep. But it is so much easier to remain in the shadows and continue the fight without emerging. So often he finds himself considering the possibility of doing just that. Giving up the prince for The Bat in truth.

It is not as if there is anything to keep him here.

***

So tangled within his thoughts is he that he does not register the passing of time until the sounds of the city break into the carriage as they pass through the gates.

Vendors hawking their wares, musicians on every corner, cries and shouts from one person to another. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, sinking into a meditative exercise he learned while he was with The League. This is yet another obstacle to be overcome. Another battle to be fought.

 _A pointless battle._ The Bat growls. _No true purpose, merely distractions that waste time and energy._

The carriage comes to a halt before the Courts and Lord Varius disembarks as soon as a groom opens the carriage door. He is aware of Alfredos dismounting the box seat and following behind him as the groom swings up and takes the carriage into the stable yard behind the Courts. He strides up the steps and begins the duties of interacting with the prominent citizens gathered.

Lucanus Marcius, head of the Council, is the first person of any true consequence that he encounters. They exchange polite greetings and Marcius pulls him aside. "It has been more than a fortnight since we last received any word from you, and longer still since you have come to the Courts."

Brutus gives a loud, long laugh, clapping Marcius upon the shoulder with perhaps more force than necessary. "Ah, you know how it is Lucanus! Time never does stand still!"

His boisterous, nearly indecent behavior garners him a few uncomfortable looks and a judging glare from the elderly lady seated in state beneath the shelter of a brocade pavilion in the atrium, flanked by two men past their prime. It is the matter of only a few steps to reach her side and he bows over her hand, adorned only with the signet ring of her house.

"Honored Grandmother, well met."

Elisheva, Dowager Princess of the house Caelinus (or, as they referred to themselves still, the Tribe Sh'niyut) born into House Achinoam, mother of Marni, Brutus' mother, merely presses her lips tightly together and barely nods in acknowledgement. "Grandson."

Brutus straightens and gives the two men a courteous salute. "Uncles."

"Nephew."

He thinks that his Grandmother may again be prepared to bring up the topic of marrying him off, but he is saved by the arrival Lord Octavius, prince and last surviving member of the House Copus. They have met many times before. Under both similar and...very different circumstances. The man puts Brutus in mind of that despicable peacock that lives in the terraces of his mother's gardens. The fowl is certainly sent by the Darkness itself and has been attacking him from nowhere since his mother first acquired it when he was a child of five years.

When he returned from his travels to find the bird still living he had asked Alfredos how much longer it was likely to remain with them and had been horrified to learn that it's kind were known to live up to forty or fifty years under good conditions. He is quite certain that the thrice damned creature will perch on his monument stone someday in triumph.

As Copus, who remains in society only by virtue of his birthright, greets Lady Elisheva with effusive flattering and unsubtle preening, Brutus slips away and manages to find a bevy of young women, who are certainly not among this gathering because of their Houses.

He has a role to play.


	2. Moments of Unimportance

Eventually, after much "social interaction" with Alfredos hovering silently on the edge of the portico, watching him like a hawk, a newcomer arrives that makes Brutus feel a sense of relief with the sharpness of an arrow to the gut. "Lucius!" He knows that some of the warmth in his excitable manner is genuine and The Bat growls in disapproval.

"Your Highness." His father's freedman bows low, he stands out in the gaily-colored array of high-born in his more somber garb. It's quality and cut are no less than any save Brutus' own, but he lacks the glittering splendor of the lords and ladies. Both Brutus and The Bat welcome it.

"Lucius!" He exclaims again, a false grin stretching across his face as he waves grandly, nearly smacking one of the courtesans hanging off him in the face. She squeaks in alarm, her elaborate headdress swaying ominously, strings of jewels and beads tinkling. Brutus and Lucius ignore her. "What brings you here?"

Lucius straightens and bobs his head deferentially. "Whenever you so wish, my lord, an invitation has been extended of a a tour of the troupe that shall assist with the masque. They promise a wondrous show this night and every night of the festival."

Brutus is slightly impressed with the troupe-master. Brutus, by virtue of his rank, would be well within his rights to walk into their camp and demand what he willed, with some reservations as Helios, the troupe-master, is a citizen with all the rights and protections afforded thereby. By extending an invitation in such a peremptory manner the man gives himself that much more leverage in the situation, practically ensuring a visit on _his_ terms rather than Brutus'. The Bat both approves and is suspicious.

"That sounds delightful," Brutus crows, drawing attention from the majority of the surrounding lords and ladies. He can see his grandmother's disapproval at his lack of decorum (and decency) out of the corner of his eye. "Send for the carriage, Lucius! Shall we, damsels?" He feels some remorse at treating Lucius as a footman, but knows that the estate manager understands as well as he and Alfredos the importance of the charade they play at.

Whether called by Lucius or Alfredos, the carriage is in the courtyard by the time Brutus and his giggling companions emerge, trailed by various others, mostly hanger's on and brown-nosers, not a single Caelinii among them. In the end he is crammed into his carriage with three young women, the mother of one of them who had practically pushed her daughter in, (the others are rather more ladies of the evening than ladies of the courts) and an awkward young man some years younger than himself who tries to hide in the corner the entire trip. He is related to the lady-wife of one of the lesser Councilmen but Brutus can not be bothered to remember his name and ignores him in favor of scandalizing the mother with the enthusiastic assistance of his companions. He is rather amused that the lady seems undeterred but her daughter clearly does not want to be there and spends the uncomfortable ride with her eyes on her embroidered slippers, unaware of the glances she is receiving from the young man on her mother's other side and obviously trying to ignore her mother's unsubtle attempts to draw Brutus' attention from Gaiana and Rufina. (He thinks those are their names anyway)

By the time the carriage comes to a stop at the traveling camp set up outside the city walls, Brutus and the women with him have managed to thoroughly embarrass and disturb the girl and young man, even the determined mother looking sincerely scandalized. Dion Arcadius (that is his name) practically bursts from the carriage as soon as Alfredos opens the door. The steward watches him with a carefully blank expression before turning to Brutus himself. His neutral countenance becomes even more so and Brutus struggles to keep the small spike of shame internal. The women help with that as they hang off his arms, cooing comments and compliments at him as the others who have come begin to join them.

An older man, beginning to go bald approaches them and gives a low bow. "Welcome, lords and ladies. Your Grace." He gives an even deeper bow with a showman's flourish to Brutus. "You honor us with your presence." He is dressed in the usual, rag-tag finery of the traveling players that could be found all over the continent. This troupe was the only one to come to the Black Islands though, an that only every fifth year. Brutus had been away on his journeys the last time they performed at the solstice festival.

He gives the troupe-master an absent nod. "Yes, well, why don't we begin." The girl on his right (Rufina?) giggles and presses closer into his side.

The troupe-master, Helios, inclines his head. "Of course, my lord. Would you prefer to begin with a tour or would you rather discuss tonight's event?"

Lucius speaks up from the side. "If you would prefer my lord, perhaps we should attend to business before pleasure."

Brutus makes a show of sulking and "reluctantly" agrees. Truthfully, he does not particularly care. Either way his time is being filled with pointless endeavors. As he walks towards the caravan wagon Helios has indicated as their destination he thinks of the Cave deep beneath his ancestral home. (A home that serves as a cold mausoleum for the memories of his father and mother.) He could be doing something worthwhile right now. Instead he is forced to play at the charade of Prince Brutus Varius. If he just left that life behind for good...He spent more of his time in the Cave than the keep anyway.

Troupe-master Helios' wagon is small but cozy, even though Brutus finds the inside trappings to be rather gaudy. He's seen worse though, (has lived in worse) and only permits any distaste to show because it would be expected. Despite the clutter, there are enough seats for Brutus, Master Helios, Lucius, and one of the girls, if the girl sits on his lap, a situation agreeable to both parties. Alfredos silently takes up a position behind Brutus that to an outsider would merely look as though he were ready to attend should his master call. Brutus, however, feels himself relax, ever so slightly, at knowing the rear is guarded. He is able to devote more attention to...other matters that way.

Master Helios clears his throat awkwardly, glancing at Lucius before beginning. "We are able to provide all the dancers and tumblers requested for the performance tonight at the opening festivities. Our flyers do have some questions they wish me to ask about their roles, but all that can be easily cleared up." He glances at Brutus, who makes sure he gives the appearance of being distracted by the gold-drops in Rufina's ears. "After the tour, if it pleases my lord, would you honor us by consenting to allow the flyers to include you in a practice so that they might know how best to present themselves beside you?"

Brutus knows that what that really means is "they want to ensure that you are not likely to do anything stupid and get them or yourself hurt."

"Of course!" He says cheerily. "How does a preview of the show tonight sound to you?" He asks Rufina, who makes a generally agreeable noise, her fingers playing with his collar.

Master Helios looks relieved. "Very well then."

There are a few more details to be sorted out, but Brutus leaves that to Lucius and Helios and proceeds to do his best to ignore Alfredos' very proper and _very_ silent disapproval as he and Rufina get more and more...familiar.

***

The discussion is completed before anything progresses to the point of complete and outright scandal. Rufina reorders her clothing somewhat before they exit the wagon. Brutus doesn't bother, presenting an air of cheerful hedonism as he leads the way from the caravan and into the open air, where Helios promptly begins guiding them around the portion of the camp used for their performances.

The troupe is fairly standard for it's kind, if one of the best Brutus has seen. They have several exotic animals scattered around and all are well cared for. The elephant in particular seems pleased with her lot, wandering fairly freely around one corner of the camp with the calm, regal air of a queen surveying her lands. There are several performances going on being viewed by quite a crowd of Islanders of a less prosperous variety than Brutus and his companions. They pass a fortune teller's wagon, a woman performing tricks on a long, brightly-colored strip of fabric held suspended in the air, jugglers, tumblers, dancers and entertainers of all sorts. Several of the women shriek when they pass by a fire-breather just as a spout of flame bursts forth.

Jerked to the side by Gaiana stumbling in startlement, Brutus almost misses the light tug on his purse. His instinctual reaction, sharpened by years of traveling near penniless in foreign lands, is to reach back and grab the wrist of the would-be pick-pocket and that is how he finds himself staring down at wide blue eyes in a little brown face, looking back up at him in terror. All conversation around them freezes and Master Helios looks back to see what has happened. Brutus does not look away from his assessment of the boy.

He is small, probably no more than six or seven winters, but wiry. His bright-colored clothing is worn but clean and he himself is the most well-groomed cut-purse Brutus has ever encountered. The shade of his skin and something in the cast of his features points to gypsy heritage. The boy twists his arm, trying to break free and Brutus automatically counters before realizing he's just lost the opportunity to let the boy escape and avoid the mess that will follow.

Then it gets worse.

The boy's struggle had pushed his hair to the side, exposing his ear. His clipped ear. _Why, oh why, had he not let go?_

He loosens his grip, just a little and the boy takes the chance and wrenches himself free, disappearing into the crowd among the tents and caravans as though he had never been there in the first place. Master Helios, pale-faced, steps forward, already opening his mouth. Everyone is watching them and Brutus opts for damage control.

"I assume he belongs to you?" he booms at the troupemaster, Helios inclines his head, covering his fear with a showman's skill. It is quite impressive actually.

"Yes, My Lord, and I-"

Brutus waves a hand, cutting him off. "No matter." He lays a hand on his purse and gives a boisterous laugh. "No harm has been done, I leave his discipline in your hands, I haven't time to bother with a gypsy ragamuffin anyway."

The relief Helios feels shows on his face for the briefest space of a breath before it is covered by one of his flamboyant bows. "Of course, My Lord. I assure you, it shall be dealt with."

Brutus nods graciously and suppresses his cynical snort. Even if the troupemaster is not himself responsible for setting the child on the crowd to hunt, he would have profited if the attempt on Brutus was successful. (And no doubt does profit from that boy and others working the crowds.) The only discipline likely to happen would be the result of him having been caught. In any case, Brutus is inclined to think that the most the boy will suffer will be a box around the ears. Helios' body language during the brief confrontation had been concern primarily for the boy himself. Not unwarranted, as Brutus would have been well within his rights to demand the full penalties of the law be visited upon both the child _and_ Helios himself, as the boy's master. But most of Helios' concern had been for the boy. He cares about him.

"If you will look to your dexter-hand, my lords and ladies." Helios picks up his narration smoothly. "You will see one of the wonders of the world, the Tumblers of Vestri, renowned in the farthest courts for their grace and skill..."

***

Most of the company depart with the completion of the tour. There are more high-class goings on in the city, not only at the Council Hall but many are hosting dinners and celebrations in their homes. Brutus himself will hold a banquet at his mother's townhouse the night of the equinox. Brutus, the two women with him, Lucius, and Alfredos follow Helios towards the great tent. Stepping inside the canvas palace casts yet another shadow between them and the already dimmed sun but the interior is also lit by a combination of torches, charmed light-stones, and even a few conjured lights. Brutus adjusts his evaluation of the troupe to include at least one skilled, moderately powerful magic user.

Rufina, beside him, draws in a sharp breath and Brutus can not blame her.  When Master Helios described these performers as "flyers" there was no exaggeration. Six people, traveling through the air as though they did indeed possess wings. The smallest of the figures makes a complicated flip mid-air and Brutus feels his eyes narrow. He has many skills himself, some of them even learned from performers like these but he has no _ability_ like these. Even now, when they are simply playing rather than performing they are impressive. He can not but think that never has he seen their equal, not in all his travels.

Helios calls to the flyers and they descend from the ropes, nimble and fearless as so many monkeys. He recognizes the first woman down, she had been outside on the suspended scarf, daring the forces of the earth to prevail against her. As she is joined by the others Brutus is surprised to see that the smallest is the erstwhile cut-purse. A swift survey proves that each and every one of them bears a clipped ear and the edge of a brand shows, just barely visible, from beneath the first woman's modest neckline.

There are several indicators of slave-status. The most common is branding, as the brands that are forged to be unalterable except by very secret, specific magics are somewhat costly but only need be purchased once. Most slaves belonging to families and individual owners, especially of the working and merchant classes are marked so.

The specially crafted cuffs, or slave-bracelets, are more expensive and are usually bound with many different magics such as locator runes and punishment spells. Alfredos for instance, wears a silver-steel cuff worked with runes for preventing damage, whether deliberate or accidental, some very complicated and complete runes of protection focused on Alfredos himself, an inlay permitting him not only to pass through any and all wards over any property of the House of Varius but allow him control over those wards and whether to allow others access. Alfredos has a very trusted role in the household and it is reflected in his cuff, anyone can tell at a glance. Slave-bracelets are as much status symbols as the slaves themselves and are almost exclusively used by wealthier craftsmen and merchants and those in the upper echelons of society. And even then, not every slave receives one. Scullery maids and gardeners for example are not deemed worth the cost of the materials and magics and are branded instead. The cuffs are reserved for  personal slaves mostly, pets and handmaids and body slaves, as well as slaves like Alfredos, who is held in high regard for his role as steward, which also places him often in the position of representing the Household.

The third method of marking a slave is the simple practice of clipping their ear. It is used for quarry slaves, mine slaves, galley slaves and other such situations, when a large group is used for a specific purpose and usually does not belong to any one individual in particular. That Helios opts for ear-clipping for his own slaves speaks to the hand-to-mouth style of living among the troupe. The first woman's brand would most likely be from a previous owner and would now be marked as no longer valid with the special, overlaying symbol signifying that she had been sold on.

Helios and the flyers are all nervous and hiding it well, Brutus plays the oblivious noble and feigns to not recognize the boy. Most people like the character he plays wouldn't. "Shall we proceed then! I'm rather excited about this, I'll admit." He grins, Gaiana giggles and Helios relaxes slightly and the boy looks less like he wants to climb to the highest point in the great tent to hide.

It is a spectacular show indeed. Pointless, as all of this nonsense is, but he can still appreciate the skill of the performers. Mostly, his role is to stand in one place and not make any sudden movements as the flyers, well, _fly_ past him in blurs of motion so smooth it is sometimes hard to tell where one ends and another begins. They are all family, two brothers from the looks of it, and their wives. He thinks the boys, one on the edge of manhood and the other the child who has been the cause of so much excitement, belong one to each pair but he cannot be sure of it.

Perhaps if he gives the appearance of drinking especially heavily tonight he can retire early and spend some time in the shadows before the morning comes.


	3. Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first night of the solstice week is most eventful.  
> This is Gotham after all. Death is nothing new.

Brutus is bowed out of camp by the troupemaster, who seems eager for Brutus to spend as little time in the vicinity of the young pickpocket as possible. He seems quite worried, almost twitchy in a way that has Brutus resolving to do some research. This seems beyond what he would expect from a simple theft operation. Normally The Bat would deal with the pick-pocketing, but with a killer of women stalking the Eastern Quarter he does not have the time. Hopefully no one else will catch the child. Traveling performers are tolerated only so long as nothing goes amiss.

"Sir." Alfredos says in a low tone as they approach the carriage, the women distracted momentarily by a little girl dancing for coins, "Shall we deliver the ladies first or send them home from the villa?"

"Send them home." Brutus replies, mind already racing to plan the most efficient way to get some work done. "That way I can repay them for their troubles."

"Very well, sir." Alfredos inclines his head and mounts the box-seat with far more agility than his age would suggest him capable of.

The drive to the townhouse passes quickly and they have scarcely arrived but Brutus is bowing Gaiana and Rufina off in a smaller carriage driven by a groom that will not be so noticeable delivering them back to their guild house. It would be a poor payment if they are robbed of the emerald brooch and garnet-studded bronze headdress he had bestowed upon them.

Alfredos sighs as he makes straight for the staircase that will take him to his rooms. “I suppose there is no persuading you to rest instead, My Lord.”

They both know the answer to that. Alfredos does not expect a verbal response and Brutus does not give one.

***

 The townhouse is not the one that his mother had brought to the House Varius as part of her dowry. The Varius villa is larger and closer to the outskirts than that. It has none of his accoutrements to operate as The Bat, there being too great a chance that it might be stumbled upon by one of the servants or slaves, wards or no wards.

So instead he locks himself in his chambers to go over what he knows of the killer. If his predictions are correct, he will strike again before the week is up. It is unlikely Brutus will be able to apprehend him before then but every one of the young women killed haunts him along with everyone else he has ever failed to save.

Sometimes he can swear he even hears their voices, accusing him of his failures and shortcomings, joining the throng of others, all the way back to his parents.

He is still pouring over maps and records when Alfredos comes though the servants’ passage to tell him it is time to prepare for the masque. Reluctantly, he sets it all aside, promising himself and the five victims that he will return as soon as possible. It still feels like a betrayal.

*** 

He arrives at the Caelini river-side villa rather unfashionably late, a woman on each arm, already giving the appearance of intoxication. He puts off greeting his grandmother as long as he can without completely ignoring all sense of propriety. Eventually he could no longer pretend to brush off her disapproving frowns and approaches her dais. His uncles are mingling with the guests and their wives, his aunts, are seated on either side of the Caelinii matriarch.

“Honored Grandmother.” Brutus waves flippantly at the guild-women accompanying him. “Have you met these ladies?”

“Grandson.” Elisheva’s frown deepens but she says nothing else and, after a long, awkward pause, Brutus excuses himself and allows one of the women to pull him out into the courtyard gardens to mingle. (and establish his presence.) He collects a bowl of wine from an attending slave as they pass.

At one point, he finds himself alone beneath an off-season rose trellis in one of the outer gardens with a half-empty wine-bowl and the taste of perfumed oils on his lips.

“Prince Varius, imagine finding you out here.”

In the darkness, Brutus feels the corners of his mouth turn up for some reason and makes sure to purse his lips into a determined frown before pasting on a vapid grin.

“The fair Selene!” He beamed at the woman who had slunk out of the shadows as smoothly as the Cat she became at night. “Your presence is a joy unlooked for! The moon itself is not worthy to shine upon your beauty.”

He drops a kiss in the air above her hand. Selene smiles at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement at his over-the-top flattery and Brutus has the sudden thought that he prefers the genuine smiles she gives The Bat across the rooftops. More mischief, less seduction - though there is that as well.

“And what is the most famous carouser in the Islands doing out here all alone?” she purrs.

“I shall tell you,” Brutus smirks mischievously. “If you tell me what the most bewitchingly lovely woman in the Islands is doing alone in the dark?” Likely preparing to either steal something or make off with something already stolen. Or maybe not. Selene chooses her targets carefully, thus allowing herself continued entry into the noble classes she preys upon.

She gives a light laugh as fake as his smile. As far as she knows, Brutus Varius is just another mark, no different from any of the other lords and princes present.

Brutus does not understand why that bothers him.

“But I am not alone. Not anymore.” She winks flirtatiously.

A quiet cough alerts them to Alfredos’ arrival. “Prince Varius, they are ready for you, if you please to come.”

Brutus gives his brightest smile and offers Selene his arm. “Shall we? The masque promises to be quite a diverting spectacle.”

Selena smiles back, her green-gold eyes glinting as brightly as her headdress in the torchlight. “I have heard wondrous things of Helios’ flyers.”

“I have seen them,” Brutus says more quietly as they begin the walk back to the courtyard, Alfredos a silent shadow behind them. “They could not be lighter had they wings.”

They came around the corner and into the courtyard, brightly illuminated by torches and charmed light-stones. The guests are gathering around the edges of the courtyard, mostly clustered around Lady Elisheva’s dais and the chairs provided for the Heads of the Houses.

As Brutus sweeps across the pavement with Selene by his side he sees Octavius Copus surrounded by young, bejeweled, uncomfortable guild-women. Further down, just past the remaining five High Houses Isodorus Drakon and his wife Junia, a cousin of Brutus’, sit side by side. Their child, barely more than a babe in his nurse’s arm’s stands by with a solemn face and wide blue eyes affixed on the glittering figures of Helios’ troupe. He does not so much as lean against the grip the attending nursemaid has upon his hand but his yearning to be closer is plain to see. Tatius Ennius, Brutus' childhood friend and, similarly, the last surviving member of his House, sits alone and silent, on the edge of the High Houses.

Brutus settles into his chair, directly to the right of his grandmother's dais. "Would you join me?" He smiles brightly at Selene as he lifts his hand for more wine. "I hear that an exceptionally dashing lord will be participating."

"Well then I suppose I had best go searching for such a man. I shall let you know when I find him."

"Oh!" Brutus claps a hand over his hear. "I am wounded, Fair One. Truly."

Selene laughs, her clear tones deeper than those of most women, and settles herself smoothly onto the bench beside him.

"Lords, ladies, princes, and gentle folk!" Helios booms from the center of the courtyard in a grand voice. "I present to you, many wonders from the far corners of the world, brought here before you this first night of Solstice!"

There are a few tumbling acts to warm the audience up before the masque itself proceeds. Brutus had not bothered to read the script that Alfredos had left on his table, these sorts of things are all the same, some great tale of adventure, structured to flatter the patron (in this case Brutus) usually by casting them in some minor but prolific role. It turns out that this masque is a fantastical retelling of the earliest days of settlement in the Islands and Brutus finds himself transfixed despite himself as the troupe's mummers and tumblers portray the refugees struggling to survive against the evil spirits and beings that inhabit the Darkness.

A guild-woman on his other side actually jumps with a squeak of alarm when the little pick-pocketing flyer makes a grand entrance from on high, wrapped in shadowy dark gauzes.

It appears that Brutus will actually be portraying his own ancestor in this little tableau and one of the female tumblers, dressed in rags far too brightly-colored for any true desperate settler, falls before him as if pleading before leading him by the hand to the center of the courtyard. Now all Brutus has to do is stand there as a crowd of "settlers" greet him with faux joy as their deliverer.

He stands, and looks, at the painted faces portraying hope and relief and finds his breath strangles in his throat. Up high, atop the villa walls, the flyers are gathering, scattered around the perimeter, ready to bring about the grand last moment, grasping onto their long ropes and scarves, and all Brutus can think is that the Darkness has _not_ been defeated. That he lives among men and women who lie to themselves and refuse to see the ravaging predator stalking at their heels and that he is not enough. Not enough to save them. His bloodline has not diminished, but he can not but believe that it has lost power nonetheless.

With a burst of flutes and drums the torches blaze high and suddenly it is as if Brutus stands in the center of one of the great may-poles of the Metros Empire as six bright figures dance through the air around him, the flames reflecting off their cheap adornments. If he concentrates he can almost make out the individual characteristics that separate one from another. The little pick-pocket is easiest, no more than half-size of the smaller of the two women. One woman's hair streams behind her as she glides, a curtain of jet-black silk and the other's dark-brown curls are pinned up, she is trailed instead by a blood-red ribbon wrapped around one ankle, twisting and turning through the air mirroring her.

The men are near impossible to tell apart, identical skin and the same dark hair but one moves with more anger than the other, the bridled power of a tiger held on a leash. The other puts Brutus in mind of a hunting eagle, knowing his own strength and biding the time to use it.

The elder boy looks fair to be as strongly built as the slightly larger of two men, the tiger. But now he moves with the lean grace of youth, his shoulders less broad and his movements less assertive though no less confident.

And the youngest...he _flies._

The torches dim almost to embers, the six of them land lightly, rolling to their feet and vanishing into the shadows, and all Brutus can think is that he cannot remember the last time he saw so much joy.

***

Some hours later, The Bat crouches on the rooftop of one of the lesser guild-houses of the Eastern Quarter, watching the street below. The hunting grounds of the killer he seeks have no discernible pattern, but he seems to stick to the less reputable streets. None of his victims thus far have been the sorts of guild-women who keep the company of great lords or adorn the arms of Council members. No, each of the girls (for they were little more, barely of marriageable age most of them) had come from guild-houses such as the one he now stood upon, known only as "The House of the Green Bird" for the decrepit parrot the bawd, an harsh and bitter woman of middling age, kept out front.

A light click of silver claws and, for the second time of the night, Selene or The Cat rather, slips up beside him. "Imagine seeing you here." Her usual purr does not hide the tang of bitterness in her voice. "If you are looking to harass the women you might find better sport with me."

"I suspect." The Bat interrupts her, not looking away from the street and the women standing and sitting outside their houses. "That I am here for much the same reason as you, Cat."

The Cat pulls back a little bit and gives him a contemplative look over the black silk scarf bound over the lower part of her face. Her claws tap a rhythm against the fabric of her tight-fit trousers. "You hunt the killer." She says. Not a hint of the seductress in her tone. "Why?"

Brutus wishes he dared look away from the street for a minute so that he could do more than glance at her out of the corner of his eyes. Even for him, Selene is unpredictable. "I told you. This city, this Island. They are mine to protect."

"Usually," The Cat drapes herself over the roof so that she is sprawled alongside him, Brutus is suddenly very aware of the press of her shoulder-blades against the back of her tunic. "When most powerful men claim to protect something, they do not mean to include places such as this."

Beneath her dismissiveness there is a weariness and wariness in her tone and The Bat decides that his suspicion she had come from one of the guild-houses was likely correct. It fit with her determination to protect the women and youths of the Quarter and how she had come from nowhere and yet knew how best to flatter each man or woman of the nobility she encountered. One of the middling houses then. Not respectable enough that she would have actually worked the villas, but not so irrespectable that she would never have heard tales of the Houses and their entourages. Personal tales.

"I am not most men." He says into the silence that seems to permeate the rooftop above the barely-there bustle of the night-time Quarter below and she hums a purr in response.

"I am beginning to think so." Her slanted eyes blink lazily at him before she too turns to watching the goings on beneath. "I often wondered what you did when you were not locked in combat with...him. Or pursuing me across the rooftops." Her smile reveals the bright glint of her teeth. "I might almost be jealous."

The Bat stifles a sigh before it can escape him and hauls himself to his feet. "There are five women dead already-"

"Seven." she says softly. "Only five that most know about, but there were seven."

He does look at her fully now. "When?"

She straightens sinuously to sit across from him and Brutus feels her mood shift, more serious than he has ever seen her. "I'm guessing you know of the last five, even the Guard know of them. But the first kill I have been able to track was eight moon-lives ago, Tala, a girl who worked down by the docks. She was a slave-girl belonging to one of the net-makers, he would sometimes rent her out to sailors and fishermen mostly. It was very messy, like the son of a diseased swine had never killed before and likely had not planned even to kill her." A slight movement beneath her face-cloth makes The Bat think she is snarling. "The second was one of the orphan girls who lived down by the Low Bridge. I haven't been able to find much about her, those children do not talk to anyone, even to me, but I saw the body. He was still learning how to kill, but his taste for blood was strong. That was six moon-lives ago."

The Bat nods, adding the new information to what he already knows. "And it has been five since Delia from the Red Flower House was found. Still messy, but the kind of carnage that was more intentional than not."

The Cat inclines her head and runs the back of one clawed hand over the dark braids pinned like a crown tightly around her head. "Yes. And each kill since has become more and more deliberate."

"He is getting better and building confidence." The Bat says grimly.

As if summoned, a scream, quickly-cut off, rings briefly across the rooftops from several streets over. The Bat doesn't have to look to know that the Cat is right beside him as he leaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to take a moment and explain something that I am sure I will get questions about otherwise. When Bruce/Brutus describes Junia/Janet as "a cousin of his" he is using a more archaic meaning for the word "cousin" than we do today. It basically means "related in some way, close enough to be significant and acknowledged but not necessarily _close_."  
>  Technically, I think they are second cousins (I'd have to check the family trees I drew up to be sure) but that is not a term used in this culture. Thus, cousin.
> 
> Also, somehow this became something of a case fic. I regret nothing. (Yet)


	4. Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not even The Bat can save everyone.

"He's getting..." The Cat searches for the right word with a grimace. "...better."

"Escalating." The Bat agrees with a grunt, gritting his teeth as he examines the corpse that mere hours ago was a living, breathing woman. He thinks her hair might have been golden but it is impossible to be sure. The girl who found the body had been hysterical over all the blood. The Bat had left calming her to Selene and the madam, a no-nonsense sort of woman who, after the initial shock, had pulled herself together admirably, seeming unfazed even by the presence of a demon of the night.

"Escalating." The Cat echoes, her lips twisting in derision, her usual purring tones replaced by a feral snarl so full of hatred that The Bat almost flinches in the face of it. "Melitta, that's the girl, said that Aspasia didn't come back down to the main room after her last patron and she was sent up to see what was wrong. She found the body and screamed." More than just screamed. There is a puddle of vomit in one corner of the room, fresher than the blood. "Mistress Tacita corroborated her story. Aspasia's patron was a regular who left through the atrium. There was no blood on him and he did not seem disturbed or upset."

She leans over The Bat's shoulder and he stills. He trusts her on this investigation. Thief or no, she had been very fierce in her protection and provision for the women and girls of the Quarter. That does not mean he trusts her at his back.

"The Golden Flower has rooms." She continues. "It has a reputation, a good one. It is significantly more respectable than his targets up until now. He's becoming more confident."

"The first kill was sloppy." The Bat agrees. "These cuts are precise, designed to cause pain and shed blood. That is what killed her." He fishes a scrap of blood-soaked fabric out of the mess that used to be the young woman's face. The blood clings to his gauntlets, obscene droplets, black on black. "She was restrained and silenced. He wanted to take his time."

Tacita, madam of the guild-house, growls angrily from the doorway. Even in her youth, she would not have been considered a beautiful woman, all hard angles and deep-set eyes over an almost shaplessly thin body. But her house has a reputation. Not the most expensive whores, or the most beautiful, or accomplished, not the cheapest either, but discrete. In the tangled game of blackmail and extortion that cocoons the Islands like a strangling web, only once has The Bat ever heard of one such incident originating at The Golden Flower, Tacita using her meager resources to devastating effect and ensuring that one particularly greedy, bottom-feeding merchant would never threaten her or her girls again.

She is no Minali, who rules most of the Quarter and the Guild with an iron fist and ruthless efficiency, a government in herself, but that their killer chose this house out of all of them for his kill has disturbing implications. He files that thought away for later examination.

"You'll find him." She says, eyes fixed on them both, The Bat can feel her gaze boring through the back of his cloak. There is nothing in her tone to even suggest that it is a question. You will find this son of a diseased goblin and you will stop him."

"We will." The Cat says soft and solemn, as if a sacred oath. The Bat says nothing out loud but looks at the room of death, the victim that will not be seen as important, and tightens his gloved fist around the remains of the gag.

***

Commander Gordonius' men, led by Gordonius himself, arrive not an hour later, just as The Bat finishes examining the corpse. The Cat disappears over the roofs, a bitter comment about the Guard and how much they care echoing in her wake. The Bat shows himself briefly at the window, then climbs to the rooftop garden and waits.

He doesn't have to wait long, mere moments later Commander Gordonius joins him, his face set against the horror downstairs.

"Bat."

"Commander." The Bat feels himself relax ever so slightly at the presence of his one reliable ally outside of his own Household. “Why are you not with your family? It is the first night of Spring-rise.”

Commander Gordonius sighs and runs a hand over his face, a sardonic twist to his lips. “Have you spoken with my wife recently, by any chance?” He asks bitterly. “And I could say the same to you.”

The Bat growls but continues, brushing off the Commander’s searching look. “This is not an isolated incident.”

The Commander snaps to attention, his weariness melting away. “What?”

“Before tonight, there were seven bodies.” The Bad says. “All young women of the evening. Most of them slaves or orphans, all victims of this killer. None until now noticeable enough to merit a response by the Guard for more than clean up.”

“Skotadi’s Breath,” Gordonius mutters. “A hunting killer on our hands and no way the Council will permit me enough resources to track him down.” His hand fists around the hilt of his sword, the leather and mail of the gauntlet creaking with the movement. “I’ll get a seer on it if I can, but I doubt it’ll do much good. We don’t have access to anyone with the kind of Clear-Sight we’d need.”

The Bat grunts agreement. People with some form of the Sight are a pence a score, charlatans claiming abilities they do not possess even more common. True Seers, men and women with the power to direct their own abilities rather than simply be directed by them… the number of those in the settled world can be counted on one hand with enough fingers left over to gravely insult them.

The handful of Sighted the Guard have access to consists mostly of low-powered fore-seers who are more helpful predicting, vaguely, when or where something might go wrong than tracking-

He pauses. “He will kill again. Soon, before the end of Spring-Rise. Have your Watchers on alert for anything unusual.

Gordonius nods, thinking along the same lines. “I will do what I can, but you know that the murders of a handful of prostitutes will not matter to those in power.”

“But it matters to us.” The Bat says, and leaps from the rooftop.

***

“I trust your night was fruitful?” Alfredos says as Brutus emerges into the hall from the hidden chamber upon his return to the villa.

“There was another murder.” He says shortly, striding past the steward towards his rooms. Alfredos follows behind with a slight sigh.

“You cannot save everyone, Master Brutus. You must focus on those you have aided.”

Brutus only does not slam open the door to his chambers because that would wake the handful of slaves asleep in the quarters a floor below. This is not the estate, far from any life save Alfredos and Brutus himself. “I was two streets away, Alfredos! If I had not stayed so long at the masquerade or simply had not gone at all-”

“You have a duty to your people,” Alfredos says crisply, a sharp edge to his voice. “As their Prince.”

“A duty.” Brutus scoffs. “A duty to what? Get drunk? Surround myself with new women every day? Embarrass myself and my House in public? What is this duty you are so sure of?” He clenches his fists tight and grits his teeth against the anguish in his belly.

“The duty that has always been of your House,” Alfredos says. “To guide, to lead, to heal, and protect. To bring what has been scattered together and to make the weak strong.” He lays a gentle, wrinkled hand on Brutus’ shoulder, all the tension of the past two days melting away as though it had never stood between them. “So many of the High Houses have neglected the gifts of their Blood, Master Varius.” The deliberate use of his House name seems strange and distant to him, as if it is a title that belongs to someone else. “Do not forget yours.”

Brutus looks towards his window and does not flinch away from the figure in front of the opening, her spectral features hidden by the marks of her murder. Her sisters in death line the walls to either hand.

“I have never forgotten.”

***

Brutus wakes to Alfredos’ knock on the door. He groans and rolls to the side. The light is dimmed through the window, indicating the descent into evening. If his rooms faced the street there would be flickers of torchlight and all the clatter of a city in festival but none of that penetrates to the gardens of the inner courtyard gardens, the slight glow is the watery blue of charmed light-stones and the only sound is the faint, barely audible murmur of the fountain at the center.

“You have a half-candlemark before you must make you next public appearance, Master Brutus.” The steward’s voice sounds amused as he enters the room and places a small tray on the table in the corner. Brutus watches him with blurred vision through eyelashes that have not yet realized they were not meant to be stuck together. “Fotapsia knows you must not forego an opportunity to advance your interests.”

He briskly removes the coverings from the bed and Brutus groans again, burying his face in the pillows. Alfredos sighs, sounding amused, and the encroachment of a familiar, bitterly rich scent has Brutus looking blearily upwards enough to see the small cup Alfredos is holding just out of his reach.

“You dine with High Councilman Marcius tonight.” Alfredos reminds him. “It would not do to be later than your usual custom.”

With a third, soul-deep groan, Brutus hauls himself out of bed and downs the contents of the cup in one go, feeling the burn of the heat and cinnamon on his tongue and throat. “Must I?” He is aware he sounds like a petulant child but does not particularly care. Dealing with Lucanus Marcius is a strain at the best of times. This is _not_ the best of times.

“Unless you wish to snub one of the most powerful men on the Islands, thereby rendering your life and business—both of them—that much more difficult, you must.”

Brutus actually considers it for a moment before coming to the conclusion that if obtaining harbor permits for auxiliary security forces becomes more difficult than usual due to his reluctance to attend one dinner, than Lucius will arrange to have him assassinated. Reluctantly he rolls off the bed and, still half-asleep, accepts and dons the clothing that Alfredos hands him, one at a time.

Once he is dressed, Alfredos fusses for a few minutes, straightening folds and re-fastening the unevenly done up laces on Brutus’ tunic. “It shall only be a small dinner. A few Council members, some members of the Houses. Nothing like last night.”

Brutus grunts agreement as he reluctantly begins to truly awaken. “Easy enough to appear bored and leave early.”

Alfredos hums a non-committal sound that Brutus decides not to analyze.

***

Marcius owns a villa surpassed in grandness only by those of the Houses Varius and Caelinus and perhaps Copus. Marcius’ villa is the picture of cold, sprawling wealth and the hall where the dinner takes place is long, wide, and open, reminiscent of certain corridors of the Courts themselves.

Brutus is seated at the high table, on Marcius’ left, Isodorus Drakon and his wife on his own left. Isodorus seems mostly focused on his discussion of the history of the Western Coasts, especially the kingdom of Astremonde, with the Council member on his other side and Brutus’ conversation companions are thus limited to Marcius himself and Junia Drakon.

“How fares the House Drakon?” Brutus asks jovially. “I have heard that the winds have favored you.”

“Indeed.” Junia murmurs, the very picture of a demure, high-born wife. “Business has been good. We recently established a new trading relationship with Astremonde.”

“Isn’t that a bit far?” Brutus feigned confusion. “Unless you have found a way to make ships sail on land, that would be wondrous!”

“Hardly,” Junia’s lip curls just the slightest bit in a pained expression. “We have come to an understanding with King Olivier, who recently was rescued from a deserted isle in the Dark Sea. Astremonde shall provide soldiers to protect caravans for overland transport once the ships dock in the Empire.”

Brutus makes a vague noise of agreement and holds up his wine bowl for one of the attending slaves, a girl with wide brown eyes and clothing that is already disarranged, to refill. He ensures that nothing in his manner implies that she should approach even closer to provide…other services. There are reasons he only engages with women of the Houses who care not of any risk to their reputations and those of the Guild-Houses.

_Brutus passes by the door to the great tent on his way to tend to the camels and other various beasts of burden owned by warlord Scevola. In the brief glimpse he gets of the banquet inside, he recognizes Shria, a girl purchased at the same time and from the same traders as himself, entwined with one of Scevola’s honored guests, a look of enrapturement on her painted face._

_Later, when he returns to the cook-fires after most of the victory celebrations have died down, he nearly walks into Shria, sobbing her heart out beside the cook, Maeve, a small but intimidating woman whom Brutus thinks might be from Alfredos’ homeland, and who has been the property of Scevola for nearly two decades._

_Maeve looks up as Brutus steps into the dying firelight and roughly nudges Shria. “Pull it together, girl. You’ll have to get used to it you know.”_

_“I-I-I can’t.” Shria sobs, her softly angled features that hearken to the noble families of one of the southern lands Brutus has travelled through these past years twisted in anguish, the paint running from the wetness on her cheeks and the khol around her eyes smeared in a grotesque parody of a mask. “I can’t do this.”_

_Maeve sighs and her face and tone are sharp but her touch gentle as she hands the girl a singed scrap of rag used to remove pots from the fire. “No one cares about the tears of a slave.” She says brusquely._

_Two nights and three raucous tents of men later, Shria is dead, her wrists slit on the pillow of her bed-roll. Maeve burns the bloodstained fabric and redistributes the rest without a word._

_A week later, Brutus slips away in the dead of night. He has seen enough, it is time to move on._

He forces himself out of the scraps of memory. “Sounds fascinating. Have you been able to meet with the king about it?”

He is aware of the miraculous recovery of the young Astremondian prince who had been given up for dead after his ship was lost at sea years ago, as well as his assumption of the throne upon his return. He finds the coincidence of the appearance of a masked archer in the city of Luce and the surrounding countryside, terrorizing the nobles and wealthier citizens…not very coincidental.

Junia, not seeming to have noticed his mind’s journey simply inclines her head. “My husband and I shall accompany the first ship and travel with the caravan to Astremonde.”

“Who shall manage your business here?” Brutus exclaims, blinking at her as if shocked.

“Our steward is quite capable.” Junia says replies stiffly. “And my husband’s aunt was recently widowed and has returned from Astremonde. She is also well familiar with the management of the ships and business of the Island.”

The population of Mystiko is small, less that a fifth of that of Gotham, mostly centered in the small port-town with a few farming and fishing communities scattered in the small hills and along the coasts, and one village near The Dragon’s Cove that is famous world-wide for their exquisite earthenware and delicate jewelry. It is an island with few resources of its own and the House Coronus had built themselves upon turning other’s raw materials into beauty, a tradition that remained even after the loss of the Bloodline.

At one of the lesser tables, Brutus can see the young man from the carriage ride out to the troupe-camp, deep in conversation with the girl from the same, who is sending out all the signals of timid flirtation, met with his equally timid reciprocation under the watchful eye of her formidable mother.

She could make a worse match. The young Arcadius is hardly one of the wealthiest high-born of the Islands, but his Bloodline is good and respectable and his prospects with the Council are secure. Brutus estimates a courtship of three months before the match is announced.

A disturbance on the floor of the hall pulls his attention away from the young romance to the side. For the first part of the dinner, the open hall floor had remained deserted with the exception of a handful of skilled musicians playing softly. As the third course is brought in however, the musicians begin to clear the floor and various, seemingly random objects are brought in and assembled.

Brutus leans over so that he is far closer to Marcius than is polite. “Wassat?” He slurs his speech ever so slightly to bear out his appearance of being well into his cups already.

Marcius’ nose crinkles in disgust briefly before he smooths it over and smiles, a tone behind the expression that makes Brutus’ instincts tense, ready for a fight though he carefully keeps his body language loose and unguarded. “Just something a little more…interesting.” Marcius’ smile sharpens with anticipation. “It would be a shame not to take advantage of the opportunity after all.”

It is the troupe, or rather, _part_ of the troupe. The children.

Helios officiates, his booming voice toned down somewhat for the occasion, his wide smile and dramatic flourishes a pretty distraction from the tension around his eyes.

As each child comes forward and performs; jugglers and tumblers, a fire-eater, a knife thrower, a boy who cannot be held by any bonds, two girls who twist their bodies into impossible knots, all shiny in their skills, Brutus cannot ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach, or the way the torches and light-stones begin to take on a sinister tinge, the shadows of the children looming behind them seemingly taking on a life of their own. Monsters, ready to devour.

The finale is the two young flyers and Brutus watches the little pick-pocket make daring leaps across the open air above the hall, to be caught securely by the older boy, hands on each others wrists in a grip that both imitates a warriors greeting and seems so much more.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Marcius and he does not think he imagines the way the high councilman is fixated on the younger boy, nor the way, as he slowly and deliberately applauds a mid-air somersault, how he looks across the hall and meets the eye of Councilman Vaneris, his second on the Council.

The children take their bows, waving to the audience, and Helios hustles them out of the hall, away from the eyes of the high-born. Two of Marcius guards follow them into the darkness a few moments later.

A streak of cold lightning races down Brutus’ spine, and is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so much more Criminal Minds-esque then I ever planned for any Bat-fic ever. I just needed a case for Brutus to already be focused on, I did not intend for it to grow so big in the story.


End file.
